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Long distance travel on the Impala was far less tedious than on the Enochian. The spirit of the vessel was very much held within its crew and, when not performing their duties, it was a jovial atmosphere that surrounded him as opposed to the oppression of order and control. That is to say, that Cas feels... Apprehensively content. Orders can be followed and when everyone is working for a common goal, there is no room for doubt; an abundance of free will has been thrust upon him by the Captain of this ship and he finds himself testing these waters with a fear that he may not want to return to his brother.
Which, in itself, is a conundrum.
One that Cas should not be bothering himself with now, as he watches Dean stride across the deck, fingers gingerly brushing against the mast of his beloved ship, to pay heed Charlie’s warning cry. There is no easy way for a ship full of pirates (that is as well known and virtually legendary as the Impala and the Hunters) to dock in a new country.
Though, a spike of uneasiness sweeps through his gut, Dean has everything under control. He has done this many times before and is rather well versed in piracy, unlike Castiel’s meagre dealings and book knowledge. It is fair to say, that perhaps where the Feds are going wrong is that they severely underrate the cunning and intelligence behind this crew. They are removing, freeing, shipments of slavery as though it is nothing more trivial than a pin prick on a map. What they lack in formality they make up for in creativity. He remembers Crowley’s muttered statement of, “Am I the only one who doesn’t underestimate those plaid wrapped nightmares?!”
Docking, Cas noted the warm palm at the base of his lower back; he did his best not to lean into it, or to miss it when Dean pushes forward to lead the crew up the jetty. They were here on business, Balthazar to be exact. Balthazar was an old friend – of whom he was deemed never to see again or be cast out himself. It is funny now, he thinks quietly, studiously following the rest of the Hunters, that it is difficult to pinpoint what exactly he had been so afraid of. Loneliness? He is named after the angel of solitude and tears, hardly enjoying the company of others. Safety? He has fought wars in countries against nameless men; he has no reservations for his safety.
Purpose?
Something clicks in his mind, yes, and he reels at the intensity of it. His purpose on the Enochian was to be a good soldier, to simply watch the events of the world unfurl and not interfere unless commanded to do so. Who follows with such blind faith? Faith in a man he has only been granted presence because they are from the same womb. In many ways, Dean is like Michael. Then in so many others, he is not. Though righteous in both their causes, Dean does not have such blind faith, for he has experienced the world’s evils and is wiser for it.
Shaking his head, Castiel dispels the thoughts that will surely end with his imminent betrayal. It hurts, from the anchor in his mind to the repetitive beat in his chest.
The sky is a monotone grey, uniform and collected clouds hanging over the faded blue sky, the sun hiding behind the thick blanket. He sighs, trudging the soggy wooden planks, listening for the groan of aged wood as they move as a unit to the small line of shops that litter the coastline. Everything is bleak, the faces of people who have stopped, wearily judging them, before moving back to their inferior existence.
Dean is speaking with a man, eagerly handing him 3 coins, precious gold that will feed the man’s family tonight. He does not look convinced, so Dean cracks his charming smile, turning up the corners of his mouth so that it meets his eyes. To many, it must look like Heaven reincarnated. But Castiel can see that this is a façade, his true smile is infinitely brighter, and it crinkles the edges of his eyes... Once the dock master nods, the steel expression slips back into place.
Another piece of his resolve shatters and smoulders into ash.
The town is quaint, in a quirky way. Dean buys him a stick of rock, laughing at his genuine confusion and pained expression when he was not informed of how to properly consume the candy. It is how Dean put it, ‘rock’ hard. He nearly forgets that they are pirates here, for they blend in almost immediately with the bustle of the market.
Blues and reds stream the streets, clogging narrow walkways with vendors and carts. The locals are dressed, in most eccentric attire, dancing merrily without a care. Music is being played from somewhere, an alcove or a centre piece to the market. Fiddles, fifes and whistles, drums that bang and lyrics sung, compared to the shell of the coast, this part of the town is thrumming with life. People bellow from their stalls, happy to attempt to drown the competition out and sell their goods.
Laughing children bound past, flowers wound into their hair and sweets sticking out their mouths. He is targeted, he is sure, because of the blandness of his trenchcoat and what is sure to be a vacant look on his face.
The crew do not attempt to save him as he is towed mercilessly into the crowd by two small children, they giggle at his protests and, resigning himself to his fate, he allows himself to be pulled to a flower cart.
Bright clusters of blooming plants make his nose scrunch up and eyes widen. Roses, in the most vibrant red he has ever seen, poke from the right, while possibly dahlias and pimpernels open wide and draw him in on the left. He gets lost in the concentrated colours; he doesn’t realise he has dropped down into a crouch.
Busying themselves with weaving daisies and sprigs of lavender in his hair, his eyes are abruptly snatched and caught in green. Dean is across from him another child, tongue poking out of their mouth in focus, completely absorbed by threading pure white jasmine and violets through Dean’s shaggy, dark blonde hair.
He quirks his eyebrow in amusement; handing the three children, admiring their craftsmanship, a coin each and ruffles their hair. His eyes flick from the flowers that are sticking through Cas’ untameable mass of locks to meet his intense gaze, where, again, Cas finds himself trapped.
Gently leaning forward, their lips brush and the stems of their flowers meet in a passing touch, for one moment, the heaving market shifts to an instant stop. There is just the warmth of Dean’s body, a stark contrast to the chill of England, his forehead, pressing into Cas’ own, his eyes, searching for something in the depths and he finds it. Their lips meet once more, then Dean is pulling away, the music floods back into his ears and he trails faithfully, his hand safely encased in calloused and worn fingers.
Slivers of light break through the dank cloud, illuminating the white and amethyst shades within his blonde hair and the upwelling of sudden emotion takes him over. The epiphany hits him just shy of painful. He’s pushing Dean into the wall of the nearest stall. Emerald stares back in hesitant amusement, a hidden question hiding beneath the layers of green.
He will not hurt Dean Winchester.
Reaching out, he cups the scruff covered cheek, a soft smile forming as the man unconsciously leans into it. So starved of basic human contact, that he tenses before he relaxes, that he expects the hand to bring him harm not love, that even after everything they’ve been through, he trusts Cas not, still. Love? He did not know he was capable of such an emotion, but now that he has identified it, it must be... Can only be.
He is irrevocably in love with Dean.
It must have shown in his stutter of breath, for Dean began to draw away. Hands moved without his consent, trapping Dean there, holding him, there, close enough to feel his breath ghosting on his skin. Their lips crashed together, with less finesse than the tender kiss before. Dean’s lips were chapped from the salt on the sea, yet they seemed to glide across his own, his hands, squeezing and relaxing against his hips, while Cas kept him in place with a hand on his heart and the other bunched in the loose fabric of his shirt. He turns his head, bumping their noses as their tongues fight for dominance. The beat of Dean’s heart is erratic beneath his chest, each thump a physical sensation that travels through Cas’ entire body.
They break apart, but don’t move away. No, they are still very much in each other’s personal space, Cas leaning in to nose at Dean’s jaw, brushing their combined stubble together. Dean’s heart rate slows beneath his palm and Cas looks up at the sound of a chuckle that reverberates through his chest.
“Not for nothin’ Cas, but the last time we kissed like that, I got laid.”
He hummed against the warm skin and then remembered himself. “Once we find Balthazar, I may take you up on that.”
The references and flirtation was something that he was still working on, however, if Dean’s indignant splutter was anything to go by, it had had the desired effect.
They spent the rest of the day scouting. Or at least, that was what Cas was lead to assume, he didn’t notice certain members of the crew splitting off and returning sometime later. He was allowed to enjoy the first normal day in months, a normal day being that no one was in danger and they could enjoy the fruits of an expanding empire without having to ‘hunt’ and deny themselves pleasures. The weather, on the other hand, is not as desirable as the Caribbean.
“Talked to my buddy and I think I know where he’s gunna be.”
The crew listened with an adoration and respect that was born from mutual trust and not a dictatorships fear. It is an interesting concept to be a part of.
“Apparently, smarmy bastard is looking to move back to France.”
Jo frowned, “Back to?”
“Don’t ask, this guy has done the European tour, but the Brits and the Frogs are his favourites.” He shook his head, “Anyway, he goes to a bar, ‘Den of Iniquity’.”
The Hunters mumbled among themselves.
Dean smirked, “Yeah I know what some of you are thinking. Benny, you’re a married man, as are you Vic and Garth so you three are counted out. Jo, Char, Kev, it is my duty to protect your innocence as long as I can-“
“Pft, yeah right. You’re just afraid of our mothers.” Kevin grumbled, already turning to head back to the Impala.
“Mrs Tran and Ellen are scary women and I’m not ashamed to say it.”
Thumbing his gold amulet, Dean clicked a few more people off and surveyed the crew members left:
Cas, Ash and Pam.
He nodded and they set off in the direction of the bar. The pier was quiet, the early evening dusk settling in, waves of fog rolling from the nearby ocean, crashing against the wooden barriers along the sea front. It was serene, the hum of the market, gone, save empty wrappers and discarded festivities. It is hard to imagine, that the flowers now wilting in his hair, similar to those drooping in Dean’s, were once vigorously bright and alive. He sighs.
The four split apart, he and Dean crossing down an alley, Ash and Pam heading to queue with the already heaving mass out front. A religious man going into a den of iniquity, Cas snorts; even as he silently follows Dean, he feels his shoulders square and back straighten.
“Dean, I should not be here.”
“Hey man, relax. We’re just gunna find Balthazar and get out, besides,” He chuckles, stepping over a drunken man slouched on the floor, “Dude, you full-on rebelled against the Enochian. Iniquity is one of the perks.”
It doesn’t make him less tense, though Dean’s positivity is hard not to catch. He finds himself smiling, as he keeps a silent vigil on the entrance of the alley, while Dean picks the lock to the side entrance. He pushes the door open, holding it for Cas before dragging him by the hand past the rooms that reek of fornication, gambling and sin. Nothing he isn’t used to, in reflection, since living with the Winchesters.
Slowly, Dean stops, Cas coming to the edge of the doorway beside him. Inside the bar is mayhem. The stench of sweaty men and inappropriately dressed women clings to his senses, the bar already full with patrons who could get a passing man in a state of tipsy from the vapour from their pores. Ahead of them, a man is thrown quite literally from one side of the room to another, a group of men casually ducking so as to avoid the blow. Music is playing, somewhere, but it is drowned out by hollers and smashing bottles.
A large proportion of the bar crawls to a stop of their brawls and shout fests to stare at them. Dean drops his hand.
“We gotta blend in, or we’ll be kicked out faster than flies to poop. Wait at the bar,” He clicks out of the corner of his mouth, pushing into a rather large crowd surrounding a pool table. It feels like every eye, (because some have patches on), is tracking their movements.
“Ladies,” Dean smirks, confidence rolling off him in waves, taking a cue from a gnarly man, whose tattoos look like they’re straining against the muscles on his arms. Cas stands to the side of the bar, eyeing everyone wearily, tensing his hands in preparation for an attack.
With a precision that Dean holds close, more things Cas never knew about him becoming more and more apparent every day, he pockets 3 balls in one shot. He swigs from a partially broken bottle that’s balancing on the edge of the table, swipes the notes wedged beneath the worn corner and walks back towards Cas. The bow of his legs exaggerates his swagger; he raises his eyebrows at Cas’ dark expression. Men from the pool table were watching, Dean’s retreating form, and then Cas’ icy glare. They needed to find Balthazar and soon.
“Was there not an honest way to gain their trust?”
For a moment they stare at each other, the incredulous, but amusement, clear in Dean’s eyes.
“Firstly, I’m a pirate. My moral compass lost its needle years ago. And,” He illustrates scales with his hands, “Honest,” Tipping his hands up, the left that represents honesty is outweighed by the right that he’s designated entertaining, “Fun and easy.” And he grins, probably the most sinful thing of all – a sin Castiel will never pray to absolve.
“Can I get you gentlemen something to drink?” The woman behind the bar has been given enough space, one guy getting a lap dance and another two spitting venom in each other’s faces adjacent to them.
“Rum. Make it two.” She uncaps the two bottles and slides them across the splintering wood, “Anything else?”
Dean takes a stiff gulp and exhales, Cas taking the bottle as something to do with his hands.
“There is something actually. I’m lookin’ for a friend of mine, about yay high, British, goes by the name of Balthazar. You seen him?”
She smiles predatorily. “You two aren’t from around here, are you?”
“Yo, Dean.” Ash’s voice cut Dean’s reply off.
Instantly, their attention shifts. He side eyes the waitress, moving through the still rather agitated crowd, people starting random fights for no reason.
“Oh bloody hell.” He recognises the voice immediately.
“Balthazar?” He’s standing next to Pam, leaning on her really, his eyes, a cloudy grey, face pasty as though he is about to spew across their shoes.
“Ello Cassie darling. How’s it been?” Slurring half the words, he stumbles forward into an awkward embrace, to which Cas quarterly returns, slumping his form into his shoulder; Dean takes the other side and they, in an awkward four ensemble, escort him out the way they had come.
“Cassssie,” He hiccups, a sound awful close to barfing, “It’s nice to see you got that stick removed from your arse!”
Dean laughs. Pam and Ash share a look. Cas remains silent.
“Then of course – hiccup – Zachariah did shove it up there mighty deep.”
“Balth-“
“You have come for my help. Yes, yes. You always were so dull, Cassie. Though fonduing with a Winchester, that’s got to have Michael’s panties in a bunch.”
Clear into the wide stretch of coast, they unceremoniously drop Balthazar onto a bench. Dean shakes two fingers in the direction where the Impala is docked, Ash and Pam nodding and walking back along the promenade. It left the three of them, inhaling the bitter breeze from the sea, a shiver freefalling down his spine. He misses the warmth of the Caribbean.
“I was... Discharged.”
“Do tell – hiccup – more.” It is feigned interest. A sarcasm and wit Balthazar wholly developed on his own.
“Hey, hey hey. Enough with the touchy feely crap alright? You two can catch up and exchange stories over dinner later. Balthazar, can you give us some information on the Enochian or not?”
“You have me mistaken with – hiccup – someone who gives a crap about the antics of that lot. I ridded myself of that madness for a reason you – hiccup – know.”
“Anything brother? Things you may have heard, things you remember. The locations of important ports to them, to Michael. To Lucifer? The place that is most frequent on their trading routes... Please?”
“Oh Cassie,” Lazily reaching out, he blearily pats Cas’ cheek, “I did so miss your begging.”
He takes a deep inhale, the salt clearing some part of his mind that had been dredged in liquor.
“Europe-Africa-America. Three vital trading routes. Slaves go from Africa, to America, goods go from America to Europe, sailors go from Europe to Africa... Tedious, blah bla – hiccup – h.”
“What the hell kind of missionaries are you?! Slavoury, goods, sailors?!”
Cas rubs the back of his neck, “It was necessary to keep in good relations between countries, dignitaries.”
“Ah politics, how I did miss your droning call.”
Suddenly, Balthazar shifts to his feet, swaying forward, then back, both Dean and Cas standing ready to balance him on either side. Although, he doesn’t fall, just starts to strut away from them, occasionally flailing – only a few steps from them. Dean comes to stand beside Cas as they watch him go.
“I’d watch out, if I were you dears. Rumour has it Lucifer has been cosying up with the likes of Eastern routes. Who knows who he has in his pocket...”
“What a dick,” Dean says finally, scuffing his worn boots on the stones that dot the sidewalk.
“He was one of my closer friends.” Cas replies, defensive, for Balthy is a nice man, if you can get used to his eccentricity. Also, they now have some information. This trip was not an entire loss.
He snorts. “Yeah. Well, we got what we came for. We should head out at dawn.”